


Helping Hands

by Trotzkopf



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wuffles - Freeform, it’s perhaps the start of something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-03-28 17:51:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13909152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trotzkopf/pseuds/Trotzkopf
Summary: The only time Vetinari ever cancelled an appointment with Vimes was the day Wuffles died. Sam went anyway, said nothing and helped Havelock dig the grave.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a promp request on tumblr. The prompt was “Here, let me help you.” (Hurt/comfort).

“Your grace?” Drumknott greeted him at the main entrance. “Didn’t you get the message?”

“I did. That’s why I came.” Vimes replied, for once ignoring the detested title.

“Ah, I see, “Drumknott replied, although what the man thought he could see remained a mystery to Vimes. “His lordship went into the gardens. And, I’m afraid, he gave clear instructions to be left alone.”

“Yes, so I gather. I’ll find him,” Vimes said with a curt nod and jogged off into the palace grounds to the distant rumble of thunder, harbinger of an approaching storm.

The gardens were extensive and, although not at home among nature, Vimes managed to find the Patrician after fifteen minutes. He wasn’t quite sure how, but he had a feeling where the man would go and was proven right when he spotted someone who looked more like a gardener at first glance than the terror inspiring ruler of the city, holding a spate in a small clearing of ancient oak trees.

For once, Vetinari was not wearing a robe or a suit but rather ordinary grey trousers and a matching shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his elbows. It was slightly unsettling to see the man look smaller somehow despite his height, and more human. A small bundle wrapped in a dog’s blanket lay on the edge of the clearing. Even from a distance and despite the fresh air, Vimes recognised the smell.

Suddenly, the commander wondered whether he had made the right decision to come here. Vetinari had been quite emphatic in his instructions, and yet, Sam had felt it impossible to stay away. The Patrician hadn’t just dispatched a messenger, he had written him a note, and something about that had made him fret.

“Sir Samuel, your presence is not required today. Lamentable circumstances compel me to be otherwise engaged. I require some privacy for the immediate future and will send word when we can resume our usual schedule. Havelock Vetinari, Patrician.”

Why the note when a quick line delivered by a messenger such as “his lordship can’t make it today” would have done? Vimes thoughts had raced. Was it a hidden message? Had he been kidnapped? There had only been one way to find out.

But, faced with the truth, Vimes felt that for once his otherwise healthy paranoia had led to an error in judgement and now he was intruding on a very private moment. On the other hand, leaving now felt equally rude, so he stayed at what he hoped was a respectful distance. No doubt Vetinari had noticed his approach but chose to ignore him.

The spate went into the soft ground with a squelch and a scrape. Soil thudded on the grass in a steady rhythm. The commander watched in silence until the Patrician hissed, suddenly leaning on the shovel for support. Vetinari’s mouth twisted into a snarl and Vimes could have sworn he heard a muttered curse before his lordship straightened up, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.

Work resumed only to be interrupted by another curse when the scenario repeated itself. Without another word, Sam unbuckled his breastplate, dropped it on the ground and rolled up his sleeves. He gently took the spate out of the Patrician’s hands and started shovelling.

Vetinari hobbled toward one of the trees and leaned against it, still wiping sweat from his face while Sam worked. When thunder rolled again, Vimes winced. He too could feel the storm, his scar flaring with pain. No wonder Vetinari had a hard time. The Gonne had ripped his thigh to shreds. That he was walking at all, sometimes without his cane, was nothing short of a miracle.

The hole was just deep enough when the wind picked up and the first raindrops hit his skin. Sam dropped the spate and turned toward the bundle.

“No!”

The command rang loud and clear but at the same time tinged with anger and something else. How could one word betray so many emotions, especially from a man like Havelock Vetinari?

Vimes stopped without looking and nodded. He understood. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the Patrician limp toward the bundle and gently pick it up. With carefully measured steps, Vetinari walked to the hole and lowered the remains of Wuffles into the ground. He straightened up but his eyes remained fixed on the blanket.

When his lordship raised his hand to his face, Sam chose to believe it was rain or the sweat from exhaustion the man was wiping away and nothing else. He also told himself the only reason he laid his hand on Vetinari’s shoulder was to signal it was time to finish here.

Rain came down harder now as they made their way back to the palace. They would be soaked by the time they got back inside but there was nothing to be done about it.  
However, in an attempt to get there sooner rather than later, Sam took the shovel Vetinari had used instead of his cane and leaned it against a tree before slinging the man’s arm over his shoulder and grabbing him around the waist to take most of the weight off the injured leg.

Maybe it was just the wind picking up again but Sam thought he heard a whispered, “Thank you,” as they made their way down the path. “For all of it.”

The End


	2. “I’m not going anywhere.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of sorts.

It was unusually cold for this time of year, especially when the wind picked up, ripping still half green leaves off the trees in the palace gardens. Vetinari carefully brushed some of them aside from the small patch of grass that didn’t look any different than the others to the untrained eye before he reverently placed a dog biscuit on the ground.

He straightened up, leaning heavily on his cane with both hands and stared at it for a while. When a particular icy gust caught him, he hunched his shoulders and shivered.

“Here.” A warm coat was carefully draped over his back.

“Thank you,” Vetinari replied quietly without turning around. He had noticed the commander for some time but since the man had kept a respectful distance, the Patrician had not seen the point of acknowledging his presence until now.

“Drumknott said you’d be here,” the commander explained.

“Do I deduce correctly you’ve found our elusive serial killer?”

What other reason could Vimes have to seek him out during his weekly ritual? Everyone knew this was as close to scared as it would ever get for Vetinari and respected his privacy. Then again, the commander tended to push established boundaries which so far had always ended in rather pleasant results.

Vimes nodded and grumbled, “You were right - as usual.”

The Patrician refrained form smiling because sometimes being right didn’t lead to being happy.

“Did you tell her father yet?”

Vimes clicked his tongue. “We’d need a medium and a ouija board.”

This did give Vetinari pause. “Her own father?”

“No. He died of natural causes. I can’t prove it, but I think his death might have been the start of it all. We found him at their country estate. He’s been gone for some time.”

Vetinari looked back over his shoulder to where the little grave was hidden.

“With some notable exceptions, a broken heart keeps beating, but we all deal with it differently.” He looked back at the commander when he continued, “Some people create traditions to keep the memory alive, and some have a disposition to react more volatile than others, especially when they lose what is dearest to them.”

The corner of Vetinari’s mouth lifted when Vimes took a deep breath, eyes darting left and right before he leaned in. A hand on his chest stopped him from closing the gap.

“Not here,” Vetinari whispered. Vimes sighed.

They finally made it back to the grounds where meticulously maintained paths led back to the palace. Before they could set a foot on them, Vetinari stopped and coughed hard enough to have to brace himself against the trunk of a tree for support.

Wiping tears from his eyes, he allowed Vimes to grab the lapels of his coat and wrap it more snuggly around him. Clumsy fingers, used to wielding a sword, fastened the top buttons, making it look like a cloak.

Their eyes met, Vimes said nothing but for once his gaze spoke volumes. Vetinari snorted and gently pushed him away.

“Don’t worry, I won’t risk the safety of the city. You know that.”

“What are you talking about?”

Vetinari smiled. “Because I know _you_.”

The End


End file.
